The Playground Sketch

My son squeaks in delight as the swing reaches its peak. His eyes meet the sky, twin hues of blue. The sketchbook lies open in my lap, my pencil sketching reality into memories. When I look at it later, it will be as if I could still hear his laughter. 

Among the cheerful playground noises, a quiet grief takes hold of me. I wish he could preserve his abundant joy, but like the graphite on this page, I know it will fade. 

So I close my book and join my son on the swing.